


A Simple Wager

by Flameysaur



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Persephone/Hades AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flameysaur/pseuds/Flameysaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is running. His master hunts him for his skin. A God haunts his dream offering him protection in return for a bet on a crooked game. Fenris can't avoid both forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It is said in Thedas when a soul leaves the body, it will need two coppers to pay the ferryman for the Faded River. Only by following the river can you avoid being lost in the dream land of the Maker’s first children. Mages are souls who could not pay the ferryman and stumble back into the real world, still half drunk of the spirit’s words.

If you can pay the ferryman, you are taken through the Fade, past the Black City, through forgotten mountains. You will hear the demons’ seductive words to lead you from the boat, and spirits’ engaging conversation. They want you to become a mage, so they can walk in the Maker blessed world of waking. But if your soul is strong and your copper good, you can ignore the spirits. If you are smart, you will engage with the ferryman. Rumor is, he is an eager storyteller, the most fascinating story being how a dwarf got a job in the Fade.

“Now that,” the ferryman might say, “is the one story I’ll never tell.” Then he could chuckle and look at the endless river. “Funny how death changes your priorities,” a soul could hear just under his breath.

But he will tell other stories, for more copper and his low, gravelly voice was meant for stories and it is easier to ignore the spirits tempting you to magic and power.

After the City and the mountains, you will pass two great statues of collared men weeping into broken hands.

“The twins,” the ferryman might say. Or maybe your soul was learned and you remember fabrics of a tale. Of the great city Kirkwall, the city of chains. Despite it’s best attempts, it never freed itself until finally the Maker dragged it under water with a tremendous earthquake. Millions died. More starved from lack of trade. The city, despite efforts otherwise, was never found. The ferryman wouldn’t tell you this. But he smiles sadly at the statues, for learned soul or not.

Then as the slim boat moves past the the sobbing, starved slaves, still bound even in death, you could spot her at the edge of a pier. Her flame bright hair burns in this smudged, faded land. The ferryman sits straighter in his boat and begins a forgotten tune. He does this for every soul. As you draw closer, you will see full lips split into a broad smile. She smiles for every soul. Or maybe she is welcoming the dwarf back. The souls never know.

“You’re here.” The woman always says. She burns. You would not know why you thought that. But in a land leached of color, where thoughts are so much stronger than actions, she exists as solid as the ground you used to walk. Her skin is pale, and eyes bright blue. She makes you think of jumping fire even as she stands still.

She thrusts a hand out to you and the body you thought gone forever returns. It shimmers into existence, but as you always saw yourself, that you that existed only in your head. It is a relief, pretty or ugly, to see what you always thought should be there. You smile as you look up at the woman and take her hand.

That’s when the pain starts.

“Welcome,” says the woman, her eyes still dancing. “To your final judgement. I am Hawke.”

No one spoke Hawke’s name in the waking world. No soul knew to not take her hand. She was the last of her name and her only biographer died with her city. She was the soul that always listened to the demons. She was the mage that burned bright. Where she walked, death followed, until she became it herself.

Hawke, Queen of Kirkwall, home to the dead.


	2. Chapter One

Fenris ran to the Free Marches.

It was a lying name. In a bar, someone told a laughing joke about how the Marches would fall under no rule, even their own, but Fenris saw the slavers in the alleyways, noticed the boats that people paid to enter and someone had to buy them to get them to leave. Fenris slept in inns with his sword against his chest as he sat up so he could run faster when the hunters found him.

But the name, the mockery that it was, called to him.

The Marchers would fall under no rule, even their own.

Could Fenris be the same?

He first dreamed of her in the Marches

_ “They don’t like me in Tevinter. I couldn’t visit there.” Her voice didn’t sound right. Humans spoke loud to elves, either because other humans did or to mock them. The long, sensitive ears of Fenris’ people had to grow used to the ringing jangle of human speech. _

_ The elven slaves in Tevinter barely spoke at all. They mastered lip reading in an attempt to escape the noise of their masters. Even the human slaves learned. Everyone was sick of yelling. _

_ But this woman, with a broad smile and rounded ears, spoke quiet. Around them, a cheap bar roared with a good night, but Fenris couldn’t hear it. It was a muted noise, but pleasant in the way joy always was. The air stank of sour ale, vomit and desperation. Yet he couldn’t say he disliked it. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the strange sensation of eased shoulders and a steady stomach. _

_ “You’re safe here. As long as we play.” The shuffled cards flicked against each other and tapped against the solid wood of the table. The back of the cards was faded brown with words printed across. Fenris squinted. He did not know his letters but he could always see them. Now they blurred together until he couldn’t guess what was there. _

_ Maybe his stomach wasn’t so settled after all. _

_ "Varric told me about you. You visited even under Danarius. Does he know what he stole?” She dealt the cards for Wicked Grace. Fenris knew the game. He’d played it for coin before. He had a fair bit of luck. _

_ "You’d gotten that from your dad.” The woman leaned in and tapped the middle of the table. “What do you bet?” _

Fenris woke with a gasp. Wood creaked outside his door. The old inn could barely pay for the slop it called food, never mind a carpenter to keep the wood quiet. It’s why Fenris chose it.

He jumped from the window, sword on his back, and ran across the nearest roof. He found a horse and rode it until it threw him in exhaustion, then Fenris ran more.

He didn’t think of the woman or the dream. He always dreamed of weird things, for as long as he could remember. Danarius smiled when Fenris mentioned them once, and ran a thick, olive finger over one of Fenris white-blue lyrium markings.

“How odd,” his master had purred, a deep seeded enjoyment warming his eyes.

Fenris never mentioned dreams again.

* * *

He stopped in Chantries occasionally. Not from belief, but desperation. Chantries would let him rest his eyes in back if him dropped some coin in a tin. Now and then, a Brother or Sister might let him steal some silence in a back room, or a quick bath in cool water.

Mostly they ran him off if they saw blood.

But Fenris gave. He lived too long under a harsh hand to not seek direction from somewhere.

“Please, Maker,” he’d grumble in Tevene if no one was close enough to hear, Common if they were, “distance. More distance.”

Fenris didn’t pray for safety. He didn’t know what safety was.

He knew being owned. He knew the pain under his skin. He knew a dark smile and cold grey eyes.

Distance. Time longer in the dream. He knew, eventually, he’d lose.

_ “I could answer them, you know. The disapproving father isn’t the only one you can pray to.” The woman spent her time shuffling the cards. She did tricks, sometimes expertly folding the cards over each other, sometimes they’d explode into a dance of brown and white. Fenris could see the blank, smooth faces where no ink marked them. _

_ How do you play with blank cards? _

_ “By seeing what’s really there.” The woman grinned. _

_ She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that crackled. In his dreams, colors faded, but she was was vivid red hair, bright blue eyes, gleaming pale skin against melding browns and grays. For reasons Fenris couldn’t name, he ached to reach across the table and run one finger along the edge of her hand. _

_ She felt warm, and powerful and Fenris was neither. _

_ He kept his hands in his lap. _

_ “You should ask for more anyway. If you don’t expect to get it, why not ask for the world?” She tapped the center of the table. “What do you bet?” _

* * *

Fenris could hide in alienage for up to a week. That’s how long it took for the bounty hunters to search the inns and think of actually trying the elven slums. No elf protected him, nor did Fenris expect it. They had homes, and children and a future.

Fenris had nothing.

He was buying food with stolen coins when the woman behind the cart brightened.

“Anetha ara. It is good to see one of the People here. Is your clan in the area?” Her voice carried the accent of the northern clans, a whimsical lilt. Old exhaustion weighed the words down, but dark green eyes sparkled as she spoke.

“I’m not Dalish.” Fenris packed more bread into a tiny bag he stole two towns ago.

“Oh.” The woman’s eyes swept down, over the exposed markings on his arms. “Abelas. I just saw your markings and thought—”

Fenris hadn’t slept last night, not after he heard whispers of men seeking a male elf with blue markings. He stole as much coin as he could and found a horse he could take. Now he just wanted some food and to go. He didn’t need some nosey woman with her nonsense words bothering him.

“They were given to me by my master.” He spat at her, punishing her with his story. “Carved into my flesh against my will in a ceremony I only remember for the pain it brought me. Then my master paraded me to his fellow magisters like a pet Qunari.”

“You’re from Tevinter?” A human boy poked his head over the cart. Big eyes looked back from a slim boned face framed by ears with the barest point. Fenris glared. His markings itched.

“You’re a mage.”

The woman’s eyes went wide and she clutched at what must be her son.

“Please, Serah. Feynriel has hurt no one and nothing.”

“He will.”

“Magisters, they could teach me not to. Without the Circle.”

Fenris spat. “Magisters only teach hurt. It takes a strong mage to earn freedom, boy. You won’t find strong mages in Tevinter, only powerful ones.” He threw his pack over his shoulder and walked away.

The woman was lucky. Fenris needed no attention and told no Templars. Her boy would get to kill before they’d dragged him away.

_ “He’ll take your words to heart.” The woman dealt cards as soon as Fenris closed his eyes. He knew, vaguely, he was sleeping under a bush, cupped against a mountain. But he could only feel the warm wood of a chair a thousand butts had sat in, and the cool stiffness of cards worn to leaf thinness by twice as many thumbs. _

_ “How do you know?” _

_ “Time works differently here. I see your birth and death. They’re farther apart than you’d think, but always too close. Isn’t that right?” _

_ “I didn’t help him.” _

_ “But you did. The demons will come. He could still lose. But he wants to be strong. He has a reason to be. He loves his mother. No matter what future exists. He always loves her.” _

_ “It won’t do anything.” _

_ The woman laughed. She drew two cards and propped an arm up on the table. _

_ “You’d be surprised what people will live through to protect their family. So,” she tapped the center of the table. “What do you bet?” _


	3. Chapter Two

Fenris nibbled roasted rabbit as he walked down the road. Farms began to dot the road, and endless grass gave way to plowed dirt and growing crops. A warm sun made sweat trickle down his back. His armor itched.

He still had his last horse. He might sell it in the upcoming town. He didn’t want to keep anything that could be tracked. But he had it now, and his armor itched. Fenris hesitated, but the dusty road was as empty forward as it was back.

He stopped the horse and removed his sword first. That he rested against his leg before undoing his breast plate. He set the armor carefully over the horse’s back, soon followed by his arm guards, then the leather tank he wore. He hesitated again. He stood in his pants and gauntlets and looked a fool.

But the sun warmed his back, and the lyrium flowed easier. The ache that was living eased and Fenris relaxed.

He was allowed this. No one could tell him to stop.

“You look thirsty.”

The voice made him jump. He swung around and snatched up his sword

A girl, dark haired and blue eyed, laughed and held up callused hands.

“Apologies, Serah. I meant no disrespect.” She was a young thing. Not so young that her dress didn’t pull tight at a certain key areas, but her cheeks were childishly round. Fenris did not move closer. Her rounded ears remained a warning to him.

Slaves knew to avoid young ones like that. They cried foul if you denied. Their parents cried foul if you obeyed.

“I just wanted to offer you some water from my father’s well.” The girl stepped back and waved to a small stone circle built several feet into the farm. Her eyes trailed down his chest and Fenris grabbed his tank again.

“I am fine.” He pulled the leather over his head and would have walked away but a scream echoed behind the distant farm.

“Lossie?” The girl turned. “Lossie!” She grabbed her skirts and ran back. Fenris’ ears twitched. The gentle hiss of giant spiders came just before another scream.

Giant spiders weren’t rare, but they were deadly. It’d cost Fenris nothing to have these people eaten and it could cost him everything for him to stay.

A scream came. The girl this time and Fenris cursed himself as he ran.

Poison burned against his lyrium as he dug a spider’s heart free from its body. The girl clung to a smaller version of herself, a sister, Fenris guessed. Her blue eyes were wide.

“I know you.”

Fenris back stiffened.

“Some men came. They asked about you.” Lossie swallowed and looked over her shoulder. “My father will come. You must run. We-we need the money.”

Fenris lip curled as he dropped the spider part where he stood and ran back for his horse. He took enough time to don his armor then ran. It felt more natural than the walk ever did.

_“She lied, you know.”_

_The woman didn’t look good. Something had leached the color from her, until she looked like any creature of the Fade, drab and lifeless. Fenris felt the twigs he slept on now, and the bar around them misted, barely held together._

_The cards felt the same. Cool, and soft in his hands, white faces too blank. He couldn’t read them at all._

_“Who?”_

_“Your girl. She lied for you. She’ll get kicked out for the rebel she’ll become, but the Red Jennies will find her. She’ll have a fling with a pretty blonde elf but it ends because she thinks too much of you and the elf is not you.”_

_“I don’t like how you know things.”_

_“No, you wouldn’t. Everyone keeps playing with you, don’t they, Fenris? You don’t even know who you are.”_

_“I know enough.” He snarled and placed two cards faced down. The woman raised an eyebrow, it looked redder than it had before._

_“You’re playing.”_

_“If I can’t see them, neither can you.”_

_She laughed, weak and watery, but a laugh. She sat up straighter in her chair._

_“What do you bet?”_

* * *

Fenris couldn’t run fast enough. No matter where he went, there were more people coming. Sleep became impossible. He couldn’t get food, or a night at an inn. He could only run. His coin thinned out, then dried up all together. He killed more than he ever had for Danarius and still more men came.

_I must be worth a lot_ , Fenris thought with a sick pride, _for Danarius to send so many to me._

He snuck into a cart shipping goats to a new farm. He would jump after they crossed the river. Roads were too easy to follow and he couldn’t risk missing the jump. But the animals were warm and the rocking steady. Without ever meaning to, he slipped under sleep’s gentle waves.

_“Why don’t you ask me for help?” The woman was bright again. The bar roared with life. A dwarf moved in the faded mix of the others, somehow sharply defined. She turned her head and shouted, the words were as muted as the bar and Fenris couldn’t hear. “I could help you, you know.”_

_“I don’t need it. You said I wasn’t going to die already.”_

_The woman frowned. Fenris stomach curled because he could see no gile on her oval face. Seemingly genuine concern creased her brows._

_“There are things worse than death.”_

_“I won’t go back,” he growled but the woman only clucked._

_“Make a bet with me. I can give you safety beyond here.” She waved a hand to the bar around them._

_“I will not risk everything for safety.”_

_“Is freedom everything?_

_“Yes.”_

_Her brows went up. A sardonic smile curled full lips as she propped her chin up on her palm._

_“I never had it.”_

_“Freedom?” He didn’t mean to ask. He worked very hard to ask nothing of the woman._

_“What we do for family empowers as much as it binds. You understand.”_

_He didn’t. He knew nothing of family. But a palm went to his arm and he felt the raised mark of lyrium._

_“Danarius is just a man, you know. All men bow to me. Some day. Make a bet with me.”_

_“No.”_

He woke long after the river and ran too close to a town. Three bounty hunters found him and even with his nap, his lyrium was running low. He was only an elf. He could only fight for so long. 

* * *

_“You only have to make a bet. You know you could win.”_

_He didn’t even remember falling asleep. That scared him. The woman shuffled quickly now. She looked beyond him to the bar, but when he turned there was nothing there._

_“Why would I win? You control this place.”_

_“Not these cards.” She dealt quickly. “These were a gift upon my crowning. The giver said he knew what it was to wake and find yourself a god. I told him I did not wake to it. Make a bet. You will lose it all anyway. I am better, I promise.”_

_“Why do you care?” The question pulled from him, unable to deny it any longer. Her eyes jumped to his. They sparkled, the pale blue of it. Blue should make him think of ice or water, but it did neither. He saw hot fire in her eyes._

_“You don’t see what you leave behind, but I do. I’m so very tired of the grey of death. You’re so bright. I can’t dull you.”_

_“You’ll get me eventually.”_

_“I want you now.”_

_Fenris frowned. He looked at his blank cards. His shoulders bunched. He couldn’t stay here. Things were bad. He felt it. Like eyes on his back, or the breath of a wolf on his neck._

_“I thought time happened all at once for you.”_

_“But not for you. Bet.”_

* * *

It was a damn bear trap that got him. He ran through a forest. The heavy boots of hunters echoing behind him.

It was easier in the forest, for him. He knew nothing of these woods and his elven nature didn’t make him magically know how to avoid twigs and dodge bushes but he was slimmer and his sword cut through wood as easily as bones. His bare feet let him feel the ground without looking where he walked.

He felt the cool metal of the trap seconds before it snapped shut. He bite his arm until it bled to hide the scream. Tears gathered in his eyes. Boots thudded farther away. He heard the loping feet of a wolf pack running.

With shaking legs, he sank to the ground. Every spare twitch radiated pain. He fell against a nearby tree as the tears slid free.

This was it.

He couldn’t run.

A wolf—little or otherwise—that couldn’t run was dead.

_Make a bet with me._ It sounded like the woman was with him. He’d only have to close his eyes and he’d see her. He knew that.

“You’ll get me soon enough. Why bargain for mere days?”

_I told you, your birth and death are farther apart than you think. But you won’t like what will happen. Make a bet with me._

“So you can take everything? I rather go with Danarius.”

_I will tell you the stakes. I will give you safety, Fenris of Tevinter, win or lose. If you win, I will dismiss the trap and heal your leg. You will walk with my mark on you, and no where you step will hurt you until your final days._

“At what cost?”

_Does the cost matter? You’re betting._

“There’s always a cost.”

_You are your father’s son. The cost is you will carry my mark. It is hard to be death touched. But it might not affect you._

She mentioned his father again. If Fenris wasn’t so sure this was a fantasy, he’d ask. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

What would family bring him but more obligation?

“And if I lose?”

_You will be safe, in my land. No mark, Fenris. For I will have you. You will walk my lands as a king walks his, but you will not leave its border. Kirkwall will be home and hearth._

“Prison you mean.”

_Safety. From the wolves at the door._

He was a wolf, Fenris thought as he closed his eyes. He shouldn’t fear wolves.

_There were cards in his hand, already dealt. The pain followed even to here. He looked to the woman across from him and she tapped the table. A hawk, edged in red fire, appeared in the wood. Fenris reached across and tapped the wood like her. Blue lines, like his markings, etched into the table until it formed the picture of a skull. Fenris starred but the woman smiled._

_“Shall we play?”_

_The cards were still blank. He couldn’t think with his leg throbbing. The woman tried to talk, but he couldn’t follow her words. When she announced she drew the Angel of Death, he could have weeped._

_They laid out their hands. The woman leaned over and smiled._

_What Fenris knew would happen from the beginning had happened._

_"Well, Fenris. It’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand. “I am Hawke.”_

Fenris took her hand.


	4. Chapter Three

The Fade was cold. Fenris skin hurt as he pushed through mist thick enough to press back against. He leaned heavily on his sword. He didn’t know how he got here. He remembered a hand, warm against his palm, and pulling. Then he opened his eyes surrounded by mist and with only the rushing of a river for a guide.

In the distance, large and hard to see, the Black City loomed. A sickly green light filtered from a source Fenris couldn’t locate. As he walked, his feet splashed against water but never got wet. His ankle felt worse than ever. He swallowed and struggled to not panic.

“I can help you.” A low, almost familiar voice, called through the mist. A shadow of a dwarf ambled closer until it finally broke apart to reveal a bronze-haired dwarf. A slightly faded red duster parted halfway down his chest to reveal a healthy matt of ash gold hair. The dwarf grinned, teeth and eyebrows working together to make him look like the most amiable person Fenris had ever met. Fenris took a step back and hissed.

His ankle throbbed. The dwarf frowned as he bent to get a closer look. With a clucking tongue, he touched the wound and Fenris jerked back.

He stepped onto two healthy feet. He stared down at his leg, but there was only a healed ankle, no scar or ache. Like it never happened. Fenris hoisted up his sword.

“Dwarves can’t use magic.”

“Dwarves don’t belong in the Fade, elf.” He winked and clapped his hands to remove dust Fenris couldn’t see. “Took me three centuries to learn that little trick. Fade shit does not come natural to me as you can imagine.”

“Who are you?” Fenris kept his sword high but was no longer sure what it would do. The color of the man leached to gray wherever the mist touch, making it look like he could melt away at any moment.

“Varric Tethras. Once renowned author.” Varric offered a gloved hand.

“Never heard of you.”

Varric laughed and something glittered in his mouth. A gold tooth?

“I did say ‘once.’ It was a long time ago. Come, you must follow the path as everyone else.”

“But—” Fenris hesitated. Even Tevinter slaves knew the traditions. “I have no copper.”

Varric gave him a strong look, a brow quirked up.

“Your fee has already been taken care of. Besides, technically, you’re not dead yet.”

“Technically.” The word was not a comfort. Fenris pushed through the mist, careful to keep Varric’s duster in view. He didn’t want to get lost. Already in the mist he heard the whispers of demons.

“Well, you’re in the Fade. And you’re a consort to Hawke. It’s a little murky.”

Fenris stopped where he stood.

“I am no consort.”

He wished his heart didn’t hammer so hard in his chest. Some demons moved in the mist but Fenris would take them. He’d take demons and a death in the Fade and birth as a mage. Anything but to feel another hold on to him so tight, to breathe in his ear, that grunt grunt grunt—

“It’s a word, elf. A title.” Varric didn’t touch him. He held his wide palmed hands out in front of him to show how empty they were. “No funny business, promise. You made no bets for it.”

“I traded my body. I didn’t make any stipulations.” Fear crawled up from his gut to squeeze his throat. How stupid he was. How fucking stupid. As if he didn’t know better.

“Hawke is no slaver. She was Fereldan once, long long ago. Look, here. I’ll make a bet right now.” He fished a coin from his pocket. “It’s binding in Hawke’s land, which I’m always in. I’m an...ambassador of sorts. If you win, I’ll attack Hawke myself to protect you.”

“And if you win?”

“You sing for me sometime, okay?”

Fenris glared but the dwarf held up his copper. Age tarnished the thing until it was nearly black. Fenris wasn’t even sure how you could read it.

“Heads,” Fenris said.

The coin flew into the air. It flipped three times then landed neatly in Varric’s palm. He slapped it on the back of his other hand.

“Tails. Best two out of three? Same bet?”

Fenris swallowed but nodded.

The coin flew. Flip. Flip. Flip. Land. Just like before. The slap of Varric’s hand echoed in the mist. He pulled it back and smiled.

“There, heads. We both won.” Varric winked and tucked the coin away.

“You cheated.”

The dwarf laughed and waved a hand. “Does it matter? The bet is binding.”

It did, somehow, but Fenris walked behind the dwarf with less fear than before.

They came to a small boat. Something brushed against Fenris’ arm and he hear a moan inside his head. He jumped back but only saw the mist.

“Don’t mind them.” Varric climbed onto the boat. It rocked under his weight, nearly tipping over twice. “They’re just waiting.”

“Who?” Fenris found it odd that the mist didn’t cross the river, but lined it neatly on one side. He climbed into the boat, balanced carefully the entire time. He looked at the mist again. And saw.

It wasn’t a mist, but a field of white-gray souls packed so tightly together, you couldn’t see the trees for the forest.

“They’re dead? Th-that’s the souls? Didn’t they have tolls?”

“Funny thing about a small boat manned by one person.” Varric picked up an oar and pushed off the edge of the river. A lazy current caught them and Varric moved the oar carefully to give them a small burst of speed. “Things get backed up.”

“You can’t just leave them there!”

“Why?” Varric looked at him from across the boat. Again, something glinted in his mouth. “They’re dead. They’re not going anywhere.”

“They’ll become mages.”

“That’s not what makes a mage. If just listening to demons was all it took, we’d all be mages.”

Fenris didn’t know what else to say. He crouched down into the boat, clutching his knees and his sword. His skin itched, the lyrium heavy and painful in his markings. He scratched and tried to focus on other things.

There was no scent in the Fade. Fenris didn’t realize how much the living world smelled until it was gone. He breathed through his mouth just to avoid the sensation. He thought of the souls on the bank and shuddered.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Fenris asked.

“Hawke has her reasons. She always does.”

“But I’m just an elf.”

Varric smiled and looked beyond Fenris. He pointed. The Black City rose from the ground as if carved from obsidian.

“Look, the Black City.”

Fenris scowled, and glared at Varric.

“If there’s a Maker, then why is Hawke...around?”

“We wonder that ourselves, honestly. We aren’t given old knowledge, just all the knowledge we could have from our joining to our leaving.”

“Leaving? You’re leaving?”

Varric shrugged. “Even gods die. What we know is Kirkwall is what it always was, a port town for trade and services. Once slaves. Then goods. Now souls. The souls are judged and cleansed and then they go. Where? We don’t know. Some stay. Like us.”

“Us?”

“You’ll meet all of us eventually.” Varric gave a lazy push with the oar. “Others have stayed. Too scared to know. And it takes time to cleanse. Centuries sometimes. Hawke found her family. Her mother had passed, but the twins are around. Sebastian left right away. Too clean, that boy. It’s not a bad life.”

“But you’re dead.”

Varric threw his head back and laughed. Fenris got his first good look inside his mouth. The dwarf had a silver tongue. It shook as he laughed, like a real tongue, but the glint of metal looked real.

“That’s the joke, isn’t it? We’re finally happy, or close enough, and we just had to die to do it. Except for you.”

Fenris wrapped his arms around himself. The air temperature dropped more as they moved into the shadow of a great mountain.

“Except for me.”

* * *

Hawke made him a bed. Well, more accurately, she made him a wing.

Technically, Kirkwall was stone and earth, as solid in the Fade as it was in life. But that was a mental barrier she escaped long ago. Now the stone and earth moved for her as easily as it once had for Merrill, but where Merrill made armor and threw fists, Hawke made a wing on the manor.

“You can’t bring him here.” Carver’s voice sounded the same, even though it didn’t. The Deep Roads were etched on him. Minutes of his life, and he didn’t forget. Veins bulged on scrawny arms. He hadn’t seen himself as strong, so now he was weak. Hair fell into eyes that weren’t as bright as they had been in life. He had their father’s eyes, but he never saw that. “He’s living, Sister.”

“I won a bet. It’s fair.”

“That wasn’t Carver’s point, Sister.” Bethany floated. Her legs had vanished before Hawke had found her. Not so sturdy and angry, dear Bethany. She hadn’t held on so tight. She grew brighter now, with a family to fight for. Not so weak either, with her long hair, a lighter shade than Hawke’s, and she hovered at her old height. But she faded at the edges and washed out if people didn’t watch her. “He’s  _ alive _ . He doesn’t belong to you.”

“Exactly.” She didn’t want him to belong to her. But he was so bright. With his lyrium and his eyes. He stalked through the land like he couldn’t see what he was.

A living ember in a world of burnt stones.

It had been so long since she felt anything warm.

“Sister.” Carver folded his arms and old muscles flexed. Hawke smiled and kissed his cheek, then Bethany’s.

“I know what I’m doing. I won a bet. He agreed to the terms.”

“His father will notice. He does not play by the rules.” Bethany swirled around them both.

“His father owns him as much as I do. As long as  _ Fenris _ plays by the rules, nothing can change.” She walked out into Kirkwall.

She burned bright today. So Kirkwall burned too. It was flush with color wherever she walked. Souls shimmered in their private selves, bustling along to trade memories or secrets, whatever could count as entertainment. Some corralled into old businesses, where they went on their business of dying. Others wandered peacefully, with no hurry to leave what was, in the end, a safe place.

Where Hawke walked, death followed. For once, it wasn’t a bad thing.

“Sister.” Carver chased after her. His steps echoed wrong against the stone. It wasn’t like it was. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.” No.

“What if you get hurt?” Bethany floated up to her other side. Concern glinted in dark eyes.

“I won’t.” Who cared?

“What do you  _ want _ from this?” Carver burst ahead and stopped in front of her. “You put him in  _ our _ house. When he could be anywhere. You chased him for weeks. For what? Warmth? You’d get that from anyone.”

“Anyone couldn’t live here. Not even he could. Except for what that monster did.”

“Are you really that lonely, Sister?” Bethany moved closer. Her ghostly arms went around Hawke, chilly and hard to feel. “You have us. You have Varric. Isabela. Aveline. Merrill.”

“I know.” Her throat closed up. It should be enough. After everything, what she got to keep should be more than enough.

But he crossed into her land. And he felt so warm. He walked so bright.

And for all the blood he spilled, flowers bloomed when he walked. Hawke ached for that. For what he was. Bright, and burning and  _ alive _ . He was everything about life, every pain and every joy. And she wanted it. She wanted him.

Hawke got what she wanted now.

“Should he be somewhere else?” she asked Carver, who never spared her feelings.

“Yes. He’s a slave. Give him his own space.”

Hawke frowned and turned. There was an old mansion, not far from the Hawke estate. She thought for a moment, saw it in her mind, then improved it. She smiled.

“Carver and I will make sure everything turned out okay. We know you greet him alone.” Bethany moved to her brother’s side.

“Of course it turned out okay.” Carver shrank as he muttered, small and unimportant. “The wonderful Hawke did it.”

“You’re shrinking, Brother.” Bethany hit him and Carver hit her back. Though his hand went through his sister’s arm, he grew regardless. It wasn’t so hard for them. But they were really dead.

Hawke smiled as she watched them leave and felt her heart beat in her chest. She walked towards the docks. Time to meet her new guest.

The only other living person in Kirkwall.


	5. Chapter Four

Fenris shivered. A milky, faded sun did nothing to warm the misted air of the Fade. The mountains were dark and reached high, allowing only a narrow river of water to loop past the copper men hanging their head in familiar sorrow.

The statues very nearly surprised Fenris. He never expected magisters to understand a slave’s feelings. To know the despair of a collar. But they knew. They mocked new slaves with it. And still they collared.

Hate warmed Fenris.

“She’s waiting.” Varric pushed his oar through the water. It was hard to tell with his exaggerated lazy motions, but the boat moved faster around the last bend.

A woman stood at the end of a pier built for larger ships. Yet as they pulled towards the wood, the water rose up to meet them. She stood tall, and beautiful, just like his dreams. Her hair just long enough for a loose ponytail. She wore mismatched armor, a chest plate with no stomach covering, a single gauntleted arm, long boots and a pulled down hood. Magic crackled on the fabric, visible in the Fade. Her blue eyes danced as they drew closer and she thrust out her unarmored hand. Fenris did not take it.

“We made a bet.” Varric took the offered arm, and the woman—Hawke—hoisted him up easily. He swung through the air as if he weighed nothing and landed with no sound. “I get to hear him sing, and I will attack you yourself to protect him. If necessary.”

“Why would you…?” Her voice sounded different here. In the dreams, it had been quiet, like a private whisper just for him. Now it echoed through the Fade, like the entire area spoke with her. But it still didn’t hurt his ears.

She snapped and pointed a finger at him, still in the boat.

“Right, of course. I apologize. I didn’t make your role clear.” She stepped back from the edge. Fenris grabbed the edge of the dock. He felt, for a moment, sunwarm wood, tasted sea salt and brine, fish invaded his nose, and far away, someone yelled at an elf to move faster in docking.

Then there was nothing but the chilly Fade air.

Fenris hoisted himself up.

“I said you would be in my land, and that is true. You are safe here, Fenris of Tevinter, how ever you define the words. Even I can not harm you if you do not wish it.”

“Why would I be safe from you?” Fenris glared at the woman. You couldn’t trust a mage, not ever. This woman was the embodiment of magehood.

“We all must follow the rules, must we not?” Hawke spread her hands before her. “But here, a boon.”

The mist moved across his skin, tapping against the lyrium there before it centered between Hawke’s spread out hands. It swirled and darkened until it formed a leather cord with simple wooden circle. The necklace hung in the air, wood blank until Hawke tapped each side, once, with a metal claw. The blue mark from his bet appeared on one side, Hawke’s fire bird on the other. The necklace rose then fell over his head, shockingly warm against his neck.

“This is your mark. You said I would not need it.”

Hawke laughed. She threw her head back like the dwarf, but there was only white teeth and a red tongue.

“It is my mark, but  _ you _ are not marked. You may remove the necklace at any time. I,” she reached forward before pale fingers crumpled against a wall a foot away from his skin, “can not.” Her eyes caught his, dancing with mirth. “You are king here, Fenris. We all must follow the rules, right?”

This felt like a trick. All this giving with no demands but himself? Fenris couldn’t trust it. The only valuable thing was the lyrium in his skin, and what did a god need with lyrium? She lived in the Fade.

He thrust his hand at her, reaching for her arm. It flung away as if he hit it without ever touching her skin. She smiled.

“You have to mean it. I can’t force it. You’re safe, Fenris. I keep my promises. Death, at least, is fair.”

A shudder raced down Fenris back. He couldn’t understand her words. Safety and kept promises weren’t things Fenris knew. But death?

He could trust death.

“Well, I have souls to gather.” Varric hoisted his oar onto his shoulder and climbed back down into his boat.

“I’m sure you’d like to see your new home.” Hawke looked over her shoulder into the mist. Kirkwall, a great city though nothing compared to the Black City, loomed over them all. “I must greet the souls, but Isabela can take you. You would prefer a woman, right?”

Fenris eyes narrowed.

“For what?”

“A guide. Showing you around.” Hawke turned back to him, eyes blinking in perceived innocence.

Fenris grunted.

“Well, Isabela will suit anyway. You will see.” She waved a hand to a gate a little down the docks. “Go there, Isabela will meet you inside. Only Varric and I can leave the gate.”

“Why?”

“Because Varric is Kirkwall. Where he walks, it is always my land.”

“Why, Hawke,” Varric grinned up at them on the dock. He pushed against the wood with his oar. “You always say the nicest things.”

“Do your job, you lazy fool.” Hawke laughed the insult, a love warming her eyes until Fenris had to look away. He didn’t know what to do with such an emotion.

Varric’s oar lapped gently in the water as he pushed away. Once it faded into near silence, Fenris managed to ask.

“Why is he not king?”

“He’s not suited.” Hawke blinked and she was the mysterious trickster from his dreams again, as impossible to know as any nighttime figment. “Do you want to keep me company?”

Fenris walked to the gate. Hawke’s laugh followed him, echoing in his ears long after it should have faded.

“She has a way of doing that.” A voice purred from the shadows of the gate. Fenris froze and reached for his sword. “Now, now, don’t be brash.”

A woman walked from the shadows. In some ways, she was  _ the _ woman. An exaggerated show of womanhood that Fenris was more used to seeing etched in stone or across parchment for young boys to look at while taking care of “personal business.”

But Fenris saw the scars. Twisted dried skin at the ankles, wrists and neck. Knife marks at the neck and along her arms. While he couldn’t see her back, he could feel the whip scars there, the same way he felt the mist against his skin. He blinked and he almost saw a woman—still pretty, still curvy, but unscarred and human looking—but there was only the caricature before him.

“Isn’t it funny? Your entire life you try to control how others see you, then in death all that matters is how you see yourself.” The woman laughed and flung back long black hair. “I would have spent more time on self reflection if someone told me that.”

“Who...are you?”

“Isabela. Formerly Captain Isabela, but those days are gone.”

“Will everyone tell me who they were in life?”

“You think about life a lot, being dead.” Isabela held out an berry brown arm. “Come. Hawke wants you to see your home.”

“How do you know that?” Fenris looked over his shoulder. The mist obscured everything, but Hawke burned in this greyed out land. He could see scraps of her hair, her clothes, her skin, even though the fog.

“This is Hawke’s land.” Isabela smiled but didn’t step farther from the gate. “Come on, handsome, you’ll want sleep soon enough.”

“What do you mean?” Fenris didn’t take her arm, but walked past the arched opening. The mist hit him hard, like a solid force, then he pushed through before he knew it was a fight. It cleared, leaving a city so bright with life Fenris nearly had to cover his eyes.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of people packed the prison yard of what Fenris suddenly knew was the Gallows. More slave statues posed for them as they walked through what Fenris realized were mages and Templars buzzing around. Sometimes the people collided and changed shapes. Forms melted and grew again. If Fenris stared hard enough, he’d only see floating white mist but it was hard to keep that vision before the one his eyes wanted to see. A city still alive and bustling, working even. Neither mage nor Templar acted scared as he and Isabela pushed through them all.

“Hawke is in a good mood today.” Isabela smiled as they walked.

“How can you tell?”

She stretched her hands into the air, reaching up to a bright sun. Fenris looked up and saw a sun as vivid as the one he walked under only yesterday. He reached up, but his hand was just as cold. It did nothing for the air.

“It’s so warm.” Isabela nearly purred.

They walked through another archway and the world shifted. They walked into the finer houses and quieter markets of Hightown. How did Fenris know it was Hightown?

“What happened?” His hand was on his sword, and Isabela laughed. He was getting sick of beautiful women laughing at him. “Tell me.”

“It’s the Fade, silly. You think it and it happens. Why walk to Hightown when we can make Hightown come to us?”

“It’s magic.” Fenris reached for anger, because it was familiar and he needed it’s ember in the gut. For so long, it’s how he kept running. Anger and rage and blood. If he just stayed mad, he could forget everything else.

But Isabela rolled her sparkling gold eyes.

“It’s the Fade. It’s all magic here. Come, you need rest. It will take time to adapt.”

Fenris raised his lip in a silent growl but, with nothing else to do, he followed Isabela through the finer streets. They wandered past a house where two young adults watched. The woman was barely there, not even the bright light of the city able to make her solid, but the man glared from under the awning. There was something familiar in the shape of his eyes.

Isabela walked away from the man and the woman however, winding around another corner and to a tucked away mansion. The brick shone bright, though no brick should  _ shine _ and his mark, the blue lyrium skull, lit up the door.

“Ta da! You get your very own mansion. Lucky-lucky.”

Fenris grunted. “What do you mean mine?”

“See this mark?” Isabela rapped her knuckle against the wood. “None of us can enter places with this mark. Not without your permission.” The teasing light died from her eyes. She reached across and touched Fenris arm. He jolted at the touch, looking at his amulet. “You’re safe here, Fenris. We cannot hurt you here. We are dead and you are alive. Only Hawke could hurt you and she bared her touch from you.”

Fenris shook off her hand and glared at her. “Prove it.”

A tiny quirk of the lips, “As you wish, my liege.” She reached behind her back. Fenris reached for his sword but he hadn’t watched the other hand. A dagger, bright as the moon, sliced through the air and his chest.

Nothing happened.

Fenris looked at his chest, and the dagger embedded deep in it, but there was no pain, no blood, no harm. He reached for the handle and it dissipated into mist. Isabela raised an eyebrow.

“Ready for a rest?”

“...yes.” His mind swirled with too many thoughts. He reached for the door, the handle cool metal. He pushed into his own space and shuddered once across the threshold.

“Just a suggestion. Hawke keeps living hours. The nights are mostly clear of her. If you wish solitude, that’s when to grab it.”

“Why would the dead sleep just because Hawke does?”

“Kirkwall is Hawke.”

A shiver ran down Fenris back. He closed the door on Isabela, needing escape from her watchful eyes. She was too much like Varric, like Hawke, all knowing in ways he couldn’t catch ahold of.

But they deferred to him.

Fenris stomach churned. It was wrong, every part of him screamed. No one should obey him. He was—

“Not a slave.” He made himself say the words out loud. “I am Fenris. I am free.” He touched the necklace around his neck. “And I have death’s mark.”

He closed his eyes and ached for bed. He ached for bed with everything that was inside him.

Fenris opened his eyes and saw a feather bed with a fluffed pillow and goose stuffed blanket. It was identical to the bed of Danarius’ favored students, the lap of luxury as far as Fenris could see. He didn’t think about how easy it was for him to claim it. He fell forward and fell into his first dreamless sleep in months.


	6. Chapter Five

Fenris woke to grey. He did not need time to orient himself. Even if he could forget where he was, the fine bed and chilled skin were quick reminders. 

He shivered under his blankets. They laid over him, heavy and warm, but it didn’t reach as far as the cold did. He threw them off. If he was cold, the solution was work. Fenris took his sword from the floor and stood.

He stared at the cold stone under his toes and wondered where he was going. What was there to do?

For the first time in his life, Fenris was alone.

No Danarius calling for him. No Fog warriors teasing him into companionship. No hunters ever waiting in the shadows. Fenris hesitated, unsure what to do with no orders hanging over his head.

A knock came at the door. He was nearly relieved. A task to complete.

He hoisted his sword on his back and tested his armor. The bands were still tight, despite his rest. He would need other clothes. He was supposedly safe, and he could not sleep in his armor forever.

He winced as he moved through the mansion. Fade air pressed harder against his markings. His armor helped with that.

The knocking came again. Fenris picked up his pace. You musten be late to answering the door, Danarius would—

Never know.

Fenris hand hesitated over the latch. His mind swirled with the realization. Danarius would never know. Fenris was well and truly free. Even Danarius couldn’t reach him here, in death’s domain, not without giving immense power to Hawke.

_ You’re safe here. _

Safe wasn’t a word Fenris knew, but some tension in his shoulders dropped as he opened his wooden door.

Hawke stood on the other side holding a basket of living-bright fruit.

“I thought you’d be hungry.”

“You are not welcomed.” Fenris moved his body behind the door, ready to slam it closed if Hawke rushed him but she only held up a wide palmed hand.

“I wouldn’t intrude without welcome. But you’ve had a stressful journey, and food should help.” She held the basket out with her other hand. Fenris frowned but took an apple from the top. The firm skin was warm against his fingers.

“This is real. How?”

“Things slip in here. Moments of reality. Varric, and sometimes I, can find them. You won’t need much food here. But this is not my food.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Your food?”

A smile curled her lips. “Where we are, there is a tree. An old tree. From before a time any human or elf can remember and certainly before the dwarves wrote of the surface. The tree grows a fruit made of many seeds, if you eat the fruit, you become one with this land. When I became what I am, I ate the fruit and claimed the tree, and Kirkwall, as my own. It is mine. If you eat the fruit, you would be like me.”

Fenris took a step back.

“But this is not the fruit.” She held the basket higher towards him.

“How can I trust you?”

Her brows drew together to form a crease. She hesitated in answering, as if it was important.

“Safety is not imprisonment. Anything kept against its will is hurt. That is how I define safety, but you must trust that I am not lying.” She offered the basket again. “It is up to you, Fenris.”

He didn’t like how her eyes watched him, so bright and blue. She waited for him to move, for him to decide. A clammy sweat took his palms. Had he ever decided anything? He ran from Danarius, in the end, but that wasn’t a decision. It had been a need. To keep running was only natural. Anything would run when chased.

Hawke wasn’t chasing. She held out her fruit, and offered her smile and spoke with quiet calm. Yet that was a trap all the same. He knew her pretty words weren’t for his benefit. She wanted him here, so badly she’d rig the game against him, so badly she wouldn’t wait for him to die.

But why?

“If you trap me here, I will never stop fighting you.”

“I believe you.”

She wasn’t lying. Fenris could read mages enough to know their lies. But not lying wasn’t being honest. He took a bite of his apple. The sweet juice filled his mouth and a little more tension left his shoulders.

He had been hungry. It felt good to eat.

* * *

Time passed. How much or little it was impossible for Fenris to know. He never saw the sun move. At times it was dark and at times it was light. It seemed dependent entirely on Hawke, the god-queen of Kirkwall.

Fenris thought he knew powerful mages, having walked the streets of Minrathous. But Hawke was something else. The Fade would folded itself to his will, but it took effort and time. The souls here walked in their self-formed bodies and moved with an ease Fenris could not posses. But they were not Hawke, who gave the city life with her moods and controlled everything with a hand wave at most.

They spent time together. Curiosity and loneliness demanded it. She never tried to touch him, but they walked at her pace, not his.

“It’s normal, you know,” she said as they walked along Kirkwall’s Hightown. The moons were out, but they gave as much light as the sun, despite Fenris knowing, clearly knowing, it was night. The sky was dark, and darkness loomed...just not where his eyes fell. That was always clear.

“What is normal?”

“To feel alone here. You aren’t weak.”

Fenris glared. She held up her hands instantly. In the almost low light of night, they appeared to glow. Fenris wondered what she’d look like out of the Fade. He tried to picture her normal, without power pulsing at her skin. Would her limbs look coltish instead of graceful? Would her broad jaw come off as manish instead of picturesque? Would her eyes still dance like a small flame? Would her hair seem as bright?

Was this burning attractive quality her power or herself?

“I can’t read your thoughts,” Hawke said quickly. “You are untouchable to me as long as you breathe. And the Fade might change you, it might worm into your lyrium, and meld with your mind, but you will breathe. And you can die. Even here.”

Fenris ran a hand over his exposed skin and shuddered.

“Good to know.”

They walked. Her boots thumped against the ground. The cold stones pressed against his feet with a security he didn’t know he found comforting until he walked without her and felt stone and wood give like mud against his toes. She did this. She made the place real.

“Why are you here?” The question escaped him before he expected it. Fenris learned long ago to not ask questions, first of powerful people, then at all. Questions got you attention. He never needed attention.

Hawke, however, paused to think about it.

“I’ll need a better definition of here. The Fade? Kirkwall? At all?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, a big bold noise that made Fenris jump. It echoed in the square. The moons above merged into into a bright sun before breaking apart back again. Fenris shivered.

“I like that answer. I’m in the Fade because of a mage. Kirkwall because of a Blight. And at all because a spoiled rich girl found an apostate mercenary attractive enough to abandon everything for him.”

“That’s not the whole story.”

“No.” She smiled. “It’s not. But it is only our first walk. I need to entice you to more.”

Fenris opened his mouth to ask why she had to entice at all. The sky itself obeyed her. How hard would it be to force an ex-slave?

But her eyes glinted with desperation in his dream. She had watched him during the entire game. For whatever reason, she  _ wanted _ him. He didn’t know in what way, but she did.

It was powerful, and Fenris would use it. She wanted more walks. More, she wanted his consent to more walks. Even Danarius never got that.

“We’ll see,” he grunted. “Sometimes I like to walk alone.”


	7. Chapter Six

It was “day” when he first walked alone. The fake sun burned bright if not warm was when Hawke worked, standing at the edge of the pier with an outstretched hand and an untrustworthy smile. He heard her say she also judged souls and cleansed them when they were ready, but he’d yet see the day.

Isabela waited outside his door when he walked out, a smile on her lips but Fenris held up a hand.

“I don’t need her spy with me.”

“I’m here to keep you from getting lost, handsome.”

“No.”

Isabela shrugged and she melted into the building. Gone. For a moment, Fenris smelled sea breeze and open air. The ground rocked under him with the groan of a ship and bright blue water lapped against wood. A feeling overtook him, one he couldn’t say he knew. A lack of lack maybe.

Fenris shook it off. He had a mission today.

So far, he’d only been in where he needed to be. He knew, in the way he’d known the names of the Gallows or Hightown, there was more to Kirkwall. He knew, through simple deduction, Hawke would take him anywhere he asked.

But a free man didn’t have to ask. A free man acted. Fenris knew, as a slave knew, Hawke would never ask.

Hawke was free.

Fenris would be free.

Hightown perched over the ocean that had loomed close when he arrived. As such, Fenris wandered until he found stairs that bottomed out near a fence. He followed them down anyway but before he reached the fence, the world melted into grey around him. Options unfurled in his mind like a map—Docks, Lowtown, the Gallows, Darktown—and Fenris thought Lowtown for a lack of anything else.

The world formed again, leaving him at the foot of a long stretch of stairs. His stomach churned. The stone was cold under his feet and the air pressed hard against his skin. He took a deep breath, then two.

He chose this, he reminded himself. It was a dirty choice, foisted on him by a dealer who stacked the deck but it was still _his_ choice. He clutched at the power of choice and walked up the stairs.

There were souls here too. They lingered on the street, only forming bodies when Fenris drew close. Most were labors, resting from a job they no longer had to do. Some were gossiping wives, clutching laundry in death as they had in life. He even saw a hooker, lazing against the wall, flashing some creamy thigh with no real interest in finding work.

Old habits, Fenris thought as his claws brushed a pouch with lyrium on his hip. He’d always carried an emergency spare for Danarius, knowing it was worse to not. It’d been over a year since Sheron, and he hadn’t been able to get rid of it, even as he starved.

He turned right, heading up some stairs. The edge of the stones pressed sharp against his toes and he wasn’t sure why the fact jumped out at him. He just reached the top, and saw dark branches of a tree reaching up towards the sky when a voice cracked in the air like thunder on a clear day.

“You dared to play your games with him?”

Fenris froze. He stood on vaulted ground, able to see the packed courtyard of what any elf would instantly recognize was an Alienage. The vhenadahl was black and gnarled, with roots growing back out of the earth and the branches reaching so high they broke through Hawke’s sky. Fruits, red and dull, hung at random from the branches. Fallen victims rotted in the air, despite the Fade’s protection from time. It clashed against Hawke’s Kirkwall, too large, too dark, too permanent to be something a human brought into existence on a whim.

“He was in my lands. He walked my soil.” Hawke, and whoever she argued with, stood hidden behind a broken wall. Fenris darted forward, hiding behind it to make sure no one could spot him. “He agreed to the terms. You have no arguments here, Toothless.” Hawke’s voice didn’t boom. In fact, Fenris had to angle his ears to hear her clearly. He breathed as silent as he could, aware anything could alert her to his presence. Who ever argued with her must be important to steal her attention from all of Kirkwall.

“He is not yours. He will never be yours.”

“I am not you. I don’t want to own the world.”

A crack echoed. Wood against wood. Fenris shuddered. He dreamed of that noise. Staffs battling against each other other. Another mage fought with Hawke.

Another god?

“I fight to bring order back to the chaos.”

“How Qunari of you.”

Another crack, this time wood against bone. Hawke’s laugh echoed. Fenris could hear the blood in it.

“You walk _my_ land, Toothless. Do not think you can beat me with a staff and some angry words?”

“Your land. Your land.” The voice spat. “What is this but another human taking what rightfully belongs to the People?”

“I took nothing that wasn’t already free. The People can walk this land as well as I.”

Something moved. Branches creaked. Fruit fell with heavy splats. A section of brown wood Fenris had mistaken for branches moved through the tree. What of the trunk Fenris could see, pulled apart from itself, revealing a black flank of some great beast.

“You are not welcome here.” A new voice tremored with the solidarity of the earth. Not the soft ground that relied on Hawke to be firm, but solid, real earth that let you know you were safe. Even this “Toothless” couldn’t argue against it.

“You cannot keep him, Hawke. Whatever human worship you grabbed to is not enough. He is bigger than you.”

“You are so upset now.” An exhaustion over took Hawke’s voice. “I was with him as he ran. I kept him safe as he slept. And when he had no one else, I was there. Where were you then? Who helped him as that slaver took everything from him?”

“I cannot help all.”

“Of course not, Toothless. How’’s your one handed elf, by the way? She still hasn’t found her way to me.”

A third crack. No wood. Just flesh against flesh. Hawke chuckled.

“Alright, fair. I deserved that one. Go. Destroy the world. No one will thank you.”

“I am not like you. I don’t need thanks.”

Fenris flinched. The air rushed around him, screaming with magic. The lyrium swelled in his skin. He thought it would burst free. His mouth opened to yell but he couldn’t let anything out.

Then it was over. He opened his eyes to find himself on the ground and sweat prickling his cold skin. He gasped for air.

“Hawke, he wasn’t wrong.” The something spoke, soft and melodic. “He is not for you.”

“The clues are there, Merrill.. If he wants out, he can find it. I have played by every rule.”

The something—Merrill—chuckled. “For you, Hawke, that means nothing at all. You control the game.”

“But he can still win.” Hawke’s voice cracked. As if a god could cry.

Fenris fought to find his feet then ran for the stairs. For the first time, the soft stone that meant Hawke was no where near was a comfort. Power, he reminded himself as he shivered in Hightown. He just learned something powerful.

* * *

Hawke sat at the edge of the dock, Varric’s boat slipping out of view. This was the worst part, when Varric was leaving and there was only the chill of a city she couldn’t make fully real without him. Water lapped against the wood, but off tempo, like a song you can’t quite remember. Hawke had, one or twice when Kirkwall was real, taken her boots off and let her toes dangle in the icy water, but now she wouldn’t dare.

Fade water left you dry and it tore at a living soul with how wrong that was.

“What’s clues?”

Fenris stood a few feet away. His anger a bright flare in a world of gray. Hawke turned, as if he caught her by surprise. He stood bold and vivid against her Kirkwall, stark white hair, creamy brown skin, beautiful green eyes with no hint of grey at all. She tilted her head to the side and pretended to not understand.

“Huh?”

Of course he’d been there. She hadn’t had the presence of mind to hide it from him and she’d giving him a king’s power. Power attracted power. He’d be drawn it without knowing why.

Besides, this wasn’t her game, no matter what people thought.

“What. Clues?” Fenris stalked closer but stopped just out of arm’s reach. Hawke leaned back, wishing he’d crowd her. If she got him angrier, would he? Or would he run away? “What the _fuck_ is going on, Hawke?”

“You accepted a deal. You live here now. With me.”

“Then what are the clues?” He stepped forward again, hands shaking. Lyrium glowed softly against his skin. Would that be warm? Or would it feel like sparks if she ran her finger over it?

“How do you get more of that?” She pointed to his markings. “Lyrium doesn’t dry out, but you use it, right?”

“Hawke.”

She smiled, unable to resist. Hawke stood up, and dusted off her pants for show more than anything else.

“Who were you talking to? Why does anyone care about me?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Fenris drew in breath to argue but Hawke held up a finger.

“I can’t. There are rules here. Ones even I must follow.”

“What rules? Why?”

A sardonic smile curled Hawke’s lips.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the Maker. Maybe it’s the Fade itself. Maybe it’s old Toothless. Fucker always did like to dance around the rules he set for others.”

“Who—?”

Hawke shook her head. “Nope. Outside our game.”

“ _Game_ ? My life is not a _game_.”

“No, but mine is.” Hawke spread her hands before her, empty and far from harmless. “And our lives are intertwined.”

Fenris’ jaw twitched. Then he was on her. Claws tore through her shirt, just missing skin. He shoved her back until she dangled over the ocean. Her heels scraped against wood. Automatically, Hawke shifted the world. This was Kirkwall and it bent to her will. But nothing changed. Hawke began to laugh.

She couldn’t attacked Fenris. Even to defend herself.

“Stop. Laughing.” He shook her twice. Her shirt ripped and she dropped centimeters closer to the water.

“What would happen if you let go? This is Kirkwall, I control it.” She couldn’t stop the amusement in her eyes.

“Why am I here then? Why do you want me? What could I possibly do for you?”

Hawke’s smile died. Fenris loomed over her, large and dangerous. He could kill her. Centuries of _this_ , of being what she was now, and he could end it. No one could stop him.

And he was scared. His breath came in quick pants. His green eyes were dilated.

He was a slave, she reminded herself. On the run for not even his life, but for his right to be a person. It was different for him than her. No one took her power from her and turned it into a tool for themselves.

“Can I show you?” she asked.

“What?” He pulled back automatically, and dragged her more on to the dock.

“If I tell you, it won’t seem…. Please, it’s easier if I show you.”

Fenris hesitated but carefully stepped back and righted her on the dock. He stepped out of arm’s reach again but she held out her hand.

“Touch me?”

His ears flicked down and brows drew together in sharp suspicion.

“Just my palm. You’ll see. I can’t hurt you.”

Her stomach twisted as he reached out. Cold silver didn’t quite hide the brown and lyrium blue of his fingers. The claw touched first, as cold as an ice spell, but he twisted and the pads of his finger tapped once against her palm.

They both groaned.

Warm. His skin was so warm. Blood beat behind it, moving and rushing and salty and alive. Together—Maker she hoped it was together—they stepped closer. Fingers twisted between each other, palms pressed tight, and they squeezed. Warmths spread up her arm, through her heart, into her soul. Never had she felt so steady since first waking up in this green-aired chilled land of death and magic. Fenris’ eyes snapped to hers and she gave him the only thing she could, a smile.

“I’m not dead. Like you. I never died.”

“It’s cold here.”

“After centuries, it gets worse.” She held tighter. Hawke couldn’t help it. She wanted more. His arms wrapped around her. Him naked and pressed against her. His heartbeat against her chest. His hands molding her chest, her sides, anything he could. Him inside her, pressing deep so finally, _finally_ , she’d be warm. Anything, she thought. She’d be anything he needed, if he’d just give her that.

But she had to wait. If she caged him, he’d run. If she demanded, he’d turn her down. She had time, she reminded herself. She had all the time.

But so did he. And there were clues.

“You can live here, Fenris. What you are, it lets you live. Other people would be twisted by the Fade in time, or tempted beyond my borders. But you, you can stay. You’re strong and powerful and all I want, all I need, is you, here, and a touch. Is it so bad?”

He looked at their joined hands. He hadn’t let go. Hawke told herself if he did she would let him go. She didn’t know if she was lying.

“Tell me about the clues.” His eyes raised to hers again and it was a test. She could see the dare in on his face. Be better than all he’s ever known, and she might just earn him. Hawke opened her mouth to answer.

And failed the test.


	8. Chapter Seven

“Why do you need to know? You don’t have to leave.” Hawke begged but the burning ember of hope in Fenris died. He ripped his hand free, not giving her time to cling.

The cold hit him immediately. He shivered without her warmth. It was worse knowing he didn’t have to feel it at all.

“The clues would let me leave?” His voice was dull. It shouldn’t hurt. Hawke was, at her heart, a mage. Mages always clung to whatever they wanted. No mage would ever give up a comfort, even for another’s life.

Hawke swore and twisted around. She dragged her metal covered hand through her hair, bright bold strands twisted in the joints and ripped free.

“Yes,” she said to the sea. “I don’t know where they are or what they say. But there are clues. Four. If you find all four, you will have the means to leave, if you wish it.” She turned back to him. “But that won’t get you home, to the living world. It will only let you escape our deal. I brought you here and it would take one of my strength to take you back. It’s stupid to leave, Fenris. I will give you everything. All things. I just want—” She reached for him again.

He jumped back even as her hand stopped midair. If he hadn’t had protection, she would have grabbed him, held him.

Anger, and more hurt than he should feel, boiled inside. Fenris told himself it was the only heat he needed.

“I know what you want.” He spat the words and walked away.

She could not follow. Fenris knew she would have if she could.

For all her pretty words, Hawke was no better than Danarius.

* * *

Time passed. Fenris couldn’t know how much. He slept twice but the sun never rose. He stayed in his mansion, where Hawke couldn’t enter. Thoughts circled his mind. There were clues, clues that would give him some hint of freedom. But they wouldn’t get him out of the Fade.

Still, a key to the door out was powerful and he might need it. There was no doubt that for all the protection Hawke gave him, it was still given by her. She could take it back.

But the clues were not in the mansion and he’d have to travel Kirkwall to find them.

Finally, after his third rest, he decided to go look. He went to his door, opened it and stopped.

There, sitting just before his door, was a bright red apple. He bent down and touched it. The skin of the fruit carried the slight warmth of real, living food. He picked it up and spied a folded scrap of paper. To his surprise, the paper felt similar to the apple. He unfolded the scrap and saw ink scrawled in pretty handwriting but it meant nothing to him.

_ Hawke _ , he thought. He sighed and took a bite of the apple.

It was his first food since the fruit basket. Oddly, he hadn’t craved any since that first meal. Hawke had hinted that living needs lessened in the Fade. But the apple filled a hole he hadn’t noticed until now and he realized he’d need more food soon.

Which meant he couldn’t hide from Hawke forever. Even if he just talked to Isabela or another soul, it was getting back in contact with Hawke.

He slipped the paper away into a pouch, along with the stem of the apple. Real things were to be cherished. He sheathed his sword on his back and walked into Kirkwall.

Isabela wasn’t waiting, which was a surprise. Fenris wondered if Hawke told everyone to leave him alone. He walked along Hightown, turning a corner as he pictured the docks where Hawke worked in his mind. Nothing happened until he found a flight of stairs he remembered taking him away before. He walked down, still picturing the docks. The world faded and reformed, but when he sought where Hawke worked, she wasn’t there. Varric sat on the edge, poking his oar at his boat. He kicked his feet above the water, not quite melding into the world around him.

“Varric?” Fenris stopped a few feet away. The dwarf leaned back and smiled.

“Elf! Good to see you. Hawke was worried.”

Fenris grunted.

“Where is Hawke?”

“It’s judging day.” He waved a hand back towards Hightown. Fenris caught an image of a tall imposing building and a name, the Viscount’s Keep. He also saw Hawke sitting in an imposing chair, an iron and thorn crown upon her head. “She doesn’t just greet souls, you know.”

“Okay. Uh, thank you.” Fenris hesitated. He eyed Varric. “May I have a copper?”

“Huh?” The question surprised the dwarf, but not so much he couldn’t fish out a coin. This one glinted with almost tragic newness. Fenris took the coin and felt a warmth of reality on it but it was leaching fast.

“New soul.” Varric shrugged.

Fenris held up the coin. “Bet me.”

The dwarf raised his eyebrows but a lazy smile curled his lips.

“What would I want?”

“I dance.”

Varric burst out laughing, silver tongue flashing in the weak Fade light.

“Alright, you got me, elf. What do you want?”

“I want you to read me this,” Fenris held up the scrap of paper Hawke left him, “and not tell Hawke you did.”

Varric’s brows drew together. His eyes flicked from the paper to Fenris. He opened his mouth to ask but Fenris shook his head quickly.

“You may change your bet if you want to know.”

“You learn our ways fast. Alright, flip.”

Fenris had no skill for coin tricks, but that’s what he wanted. He flung the coin into the air. It arched up, wobbling with true chance.

“Heads.” Varric called out as the coin fell wide. Fenris hand shot out and caught it before it could drop into the sea. He slapped it on the back of his hand and revealed.

“Tails,” he said with no smile at all.

“What a face! And you  _ lost _ the Wicked Grace game?”

“I couldn’t read the cards.” He handed the paper and the coin to Varric.

“Ah, yeah, those cards are hard to see. Even I can’t sometimes. ‘Sorry.’”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“No.” Varric waved the paper in front of Fenris face. “That’s what the note says. ‘Sorry.’ One word.”

Fenris took the paper and folded it carefully before returning it to his pouch. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but Fenris couldn’t quash the feeling.

Hawke apologized. To him.

It didn’t make up for what she did. Nothing could.

But she  _ apologized _ . Like he was a superior magister. Beyond a mumbled apology from a barmaid or someone trampling his foot, Fenris couldn’t think of a single time anyone apologized to him.

“Do I need to hurt Hawke?” Varric asked, tone lazy. “Because of our other bet?”

“No. She did not harm me.” Not in a way he couldn’t escape. In fact, looking back, he’d never been  _ afraid _ . Angry, hurt, offended, yes but not afraid.

That was something to mull over as well.

“Good. She’d like to see you, if you’re seeking her out.”

Fenris grunted again but turned. Behind him, Varric began to whistle a tune, low and haunting. Fenris couldn’t shake it out of his head, even as he visualized the Keep. He ran for the stairs he came in on but it did not appear for him.

He returned to Hightown, and walked along it’s border until he found the Keep. As he pushed open the large double doors, something settled in him and he knew he wouldn’t need to do that again.

He shrugged off the weirdness and looked around. The Keep was a large building, with room for people to linger. He stood in an entrance way, with stairs leading up to the open floor that branched in three different directions. In front of him, Fenris could just hear the drone of people. He bet if Hawke was anywhere, it was there.

But when he climbed up the steps he veered to the right. He found the barracks, and got an image of dusty armored guards, gossiping and debating better shifts. Fenris wasn’t sure if it was a memory or a daily activity still. He looked around the connected rooms, but there was nothing there, no souls and nothing of interest.

His ears flicked as he crossed back to the room on the other side. A strong male voice cried out.

“I had to protect my flock.”

“Your flock?” Hawke’s voice was cold, colder than Fenris had ever heard it. “Did that flock include necromancers?”

Fenris walked on. A soul waited outside the other door; a smaller man, with dark bags under his eyes and auburn hair. Fenris wondered how tired you’d have to be to have bags under your eyes when you’re dead.

“Who are you?” The man asked in the insulted tones of middle management.

Fenris tapped against his necklace and walked on. If he wasn’t meant to be here, let Hawke stop him.

“You can’t go in there. That’s the viscount—” The soul stopped when Fenris drew his sword. The man didn’t look at the blade, but rather the lyrium glowing under Fenris’ skin. He took a step back, then ran. Fenris rolled his eyes and looked around.

The first room was open, with some chairs, and even a half remembered plant in the corner. He wasn’t sure why he was here. He came for Hawke, but he continued his search.

There were two doors besides the one he entered from. The first lead to an oversized office that probably belonged to the living Viscounts. Somehow, Fenris couldn’t picture Hawke behind the heavy oak desk dealing with paperwork.

Some things, death should cure.

The other room was smaller. Maybe it had been for the man, or maybe it was where more important guests waited. There was a bottle of good wine, leached of color, on the desk. A chest faded in and out of existence near the desk. Two portraits of a men long dead even for Kirkwall hung on the wall.

It was as boring at the other rooms, as empty. But Fenris didn’t move.

He stared at the portraits. A pale man posed dramatically, holding his hand over his stomach. Without knowing why he reached forward and pushed the painting to the side.

The world around him swirled and twisted. Fenris stumbled back, feeling sick.

The light had changed and his robes stuck to his arms from sweat. With a mild curse, he reached across his desk and snapped a flame onto a candle.

The hand that snapped was a faded tan, someone who wanted to be paler than he was. Wide palmed and thick fingered with manicured nails. Fenris knew the hand. It could be hard with a blow, hot with magic, or gentle as, and unwanted, as a kiss.

Danarius’ hand.


	9. Chapter Eight

Danarius, as always, moved without Fenris consent. Despite Fenris screaming with everything that was himself, the human wasn’t affected. He snapped his fingers at more candles, brightening the stifling room, then sank his hands into his hair.

The fingers parted thick hair, dragging a few strands out and onto the table. They were brown, not gray and still not threatening to thin. Heat from a candle warmed a bare chin. This wasn’t his master, but a different, younger, version of the magister Fenris had known.

“This doesn’t make sense. Where would the lyrium come from?” Danarius slapped his hand against ancient parchment. The table wobbled from the hit but even then, his eyes could pick apart most of the ancient elven text—it helped it was mostly numbers—and understand. Fenris could pick it apart and understand.

“Maybe it needs to be a mage. Weren’t all those ancient elves magic?” A much,  _ much _ younger Hadriana sat at another desk in the room.

“Bah. Elven propaganda. No species could be all mage. They lack the strength. Especially elves.” Danarius rose and crossed to a window. A faint breeze pressed through an open slit. Danarius looked down at a group of children slaves snatching an hour of play as the sun set outside. “Look at them, Hadriana. They know they must work, and still they find time to waste.”

Fenris stared at two elven children, a boy with dark hair, and a girl with bright red. They hopped against the dusty ground, playing a game of their own invention. His stomach twisted with a feeling he could not name and Danarius turned from the window.

“There must be something we’re missing. An old prayer. A technique. Which false god was this one to?”

“This one?” Hadriana reached across the table and shuffled some papers around. “Uhhhhh, the traitor. The wolf.”

Danarius clucked his tongue and dropped back into his seat.

“Maybe that’s the angle we’re missing.”

* * *

Fenris screamed. Knives dug against his skin, lyrium burned as it mixed with blood. Danarius stood over him, smiling. At one point, he reached down and cradled Fenris’ face.

“My little wolf.”

* * *

Reality hit Fenris with a gasp. Metal armor clanked just outside the door of his room and he barely had time to scramble to his feet before a woman walked in.

She was a towering woman, at least seven feet, with hair nearly as bright as Hawke’s. Heavy guard armor clanked as she walked. Fenris realized with dull horror that the armor was  _ attached _ to her skin. The woman gave him a steady stare of cool green.

“You must be Fenris.” Her voice was shockingly soft, with a gentleness he did not expect. “Is there a reason you are sneaking around the Keep?”

“Am I not allowed?”

The woman shrugged, a symphony of metal and creaking leather.

“Hawke says you’re allowed everywhere.”

“Then I’m not sneaking. Where is Hawke?” Fenris had no desire to share what just happened with anyone, much less this giant.

“She is judging. That’s done on the throne. Come.” The woman ducked under the door. Fenris followed the order out of habit, keeping three steps behind the woman without thinking. “I’m Aveline, by the way. Aveline Haydr.”

“You’re one of Hawke’s.”

Aveline chuckled, a pretty sound.

“Aye. It looks this way. Once I wouldn’t know what to do without her. Now I exist for her.”

A chill ran down Fenris spine.

“Are you free?”

Aveline gave the question due pause. She lead him back to the cross roads and down the long hallway.

“I don’t think so, but that has less to do with Hawke owning me and more with being dead. I must exist here or move on. There’s no freedom in that. But I choose here. I choose Hawke. That isn’t forced.”

He grunted, more relieved than he should be. He was no rebel. He had no desire to race back to Tevinter to lead a slave rebellion. But to think Hawke a slaver turned his stomach in a way he didn’t expect. She was a mage, power was her plaything. Slavery was not beyond her.

He touched his necklace. It was the only warm Fade made thing. If he clung tight, he could feel a fire roaring in the wood. Hawke’s magic, he assumed. It felt like Hawke had when he touched her hand, but with only a fraction of the strength.

Aveline opened the back doors, lead Fenris through a shorter antechamber, then opened another pair of doors.

Hawke sat on a throne. Lining either side of her were identical lines of full armored city guards, their helmets hiding hiding everything from view. An elven man stood before the throne, cloaked in a fine mage robe. He stood tall and handsome, but blood clung to his hands and pooled at his feet.

“Surely, Hawke, after everything, you can’t abandon me now,” the man begged. He was trying not to. His voice was strong and back straight but Fenris recognized the tone.

Hawke leaned her chin on her right hand, tapping her cheek.

“It’s not abandonment. It’s judgement.”

“I had no choice. If I was harsh, Meredith would be twice so. Any concession to her viewpoint would equal twice as many Tranquil mages, twice as many deaths.”

“And how many deaths did that lead to? You saved mages at the cost of non-mage lives. Turning blind eyes is how we all got here.”

“Hawke,” the man stepped forward. He reached for her with a familial begging. Fenris wondered what relationship the two had and something twinged in his gut. Dislike? The man was  _ very _ handsome. “You understand. I know you understand.”

Blood dripped off the man’s hand to splat against the tile floor. Hawke sighed and leaned back.

“I do understand, Orsino. I believe you. You could have been a good man, a good mage, but no such thing exists in Kirkwall.” She waved her hand. “Banishment.”

“What?”

“Go back to Thedas, Orsino. Be a good man.”

“You can’t throw me to the demons! They’ll destroy me. I-I-I’ll—”

“The demons need your permission. They always need a mage’s permission. I believe in you.”

“Hawke, you can’t. You—”

Two guards grabbed the man’s arms and began to drag him off. Hawke held up a hand and they froze midstep. Fenris realized the city guards weren’t souls, like Aveline or Isabela or the many people lingering in Kirkwall. They were pure constructs of Hawke’s will, like the necklace.

“Cleanse him. I’m giving you a gift, Orsino. You can forget. Prove yourself right. I believe in you.”

The words didn’t comfort Orsino. He called for Hawke again and again as the guards dragged him past Fenris. Aveline gestured him away and turned to Hawke but another soul was already being brought out.

This was a woman, almost as tall as Aveline, with shining gold hair. Like Aveline, her armor grew into a skin, but she was Templar, not city guard. A sword hung at her back, blade a pulsing, ugly shade of red. It glowed with a light that made Fenris rub his markings. Even being able to see through the sword, knowing it wasn’t reale, didn’t comfort him.

“Meredith.” Hawke sat straight on her throne. “It took a while to find you.”

“This is a farse! I only answer to the Maker.”

“The Maker isn’t here right now.” Hawke crossed her legs and steepled her fingers. “But I am.”

“I don’t know what you did,  _ mage _ , to set up this fantasy, but you’re nothing more than a Fereldan peasant stealing what is rightfully mine.”

“Nothing here is yours, Meredith. Least of all my throne.” Hawke tilted her head slightly to the side. “Do you have any defense for yourself? For what you drove mages to do?”

“Ha!” Meredith spat on the ground. “I did what was right. I stood righteous before the sinners and the weak. I  _ protected _ Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall is in the Fade because of your actions.”

“No. Kirkwall is in the Fade because of yours.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed then—for the barest second—flicked to Fenris. She held up a hand then snapped her fingers.

“Unmake her.”

More guards approached. Meredith tried to shake hers off, but even she couldn’t escape two dozen people. They pulled at her armor. Each plate of mail tore away a piece of her. Fenris stepped closer. She still fought, throwing a punch, then kicking. She drew her blade but too late. The hand was gone. Then forearm. Then arm. Her vivid blue eyes grew wider. She lost her fingers, her limbs, her body.

“Hawke!” Meredith called out.

“No, Meredith. I no longer have to listen to you.” Hawke watched as a guard lifted their foot and brought it down.

Meredith, Templar, was no more.

“Fenris.” Hawke stepped down from the throne. She pulled a thorn metal crown from her head and put it on the seat before crossing to him. Her face blank and eyes swirling with an emotion he couldn’t read. “Did you get my note?”

“...Yes.”

“I am sorry. What I did was wrong.”

“Hawke.” Aveline touched Hawke’s shoulder, a gentle caress of leather covered fingers. Hawke shrugged it off.

“It was a long time coming. I had no mercy for her.”

“Because she was a Templar?”

“No. I like Templars. Or I did, before. They made me feel safe. But Meredith wasn’t interested in safety. She wanted power.” Hawke paused for a moment then, almost too quiet for Fenris to hear, said. “She would have made a good mage.”

Hawke shook her head, a small smile curled her lips.

“But I’m glad you came, Fenris. It’s good for you to see.”

“Why?”

“I’m not trying to lie or hide from you. I want you to know all of me. I want your opinion. If you like, next time, we can talk about it.”

“Why would you want to talk to me?”

Hawke blinked. “You’re unbiased. I am so stuck in my own viewpoints and opinions. Having yours could help me escape what I do. If you joined me, fully, you’d have as much power as me.”

Fenris looked at the empty space before the throne. The guards moved back into their lines. He looked back to Hawke, who’s smile faltered for a second before finding strength again.

“Who was she?”

“A Templar with no mercy for mages. One who squeezed them so tight, they felt the demons had their best interest at heart.” Hawke’s eyes narrowed again. “Kirkwall was a banquet of temptations to any mage but between Meredith and Orsino, the mages never had a chance.” She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. “Would you like a walk, Fenris?”

She wasn’t asking for him. Fenris glanced to Aveline, then back to Hawke.

“I have things to do,” he grunted and turned without another word. He found a clue. There had to be more.

He needed something, anything, to protect himself. His fingers brushed against the fabric in his pocket. You couldn’t trust a mage or a god, and Hawke was both.


End file.
